


Less Than Human

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Bottom Kuroiwa, Clothed Sex, Cockwarming, Collars, Crack Relationships, Dirty Talk, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Nipple Play, Public Sex, Puppy Play, Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza 0 (Video Game), it's rlly fucken nasty as is my m.o.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: And as he hugged him tighter, Tachibana felt the firm outline of something very dangerous press into his hip.With a shaking voice, Tachibana cracked: “Is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”Kuroiwa brought the now-removed glove to his lips and sucked the tip of it into his mouth, the leather sour on his tongue. The material was somehow warm from Tachibana’s prosthetic.
Relationships: Kuroiwa Mitsuru/Tachibana Tetsu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MenaHahn_Kentut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaHahn_Kentut/gifts).



> spoilers for both judgment and yakuza 0! if you're unfamiliar w kuroiwa's and tachibana's full nature pls no read.
> 
> it's set in yakuza 0's era.

Before Kamurocho was Sotenbori, and before then, China.

But in that period between Kamurocho and China, in the filthy cracks of Osaka, pockets full of dirty money, that yellow-gold glint of crime occupying Tachibana’s time, when he was trafficking humans in cages and wearing cheap button-ups, Tachibana met Kuroiwa for the first time.

He had been laying on a red, lacquered couch inside a lounge, aged and cracked with little veins of cotton like varicose veins. The atmosphere was as dim as it was smoky; nicotine clogged the room like fog. It was cold out, and he’d been wearing a coat that he thought looked pretty good, personally; a more expensive piece, made of brown fox fur. He was chain smoking and thinking about his growing income. A slow endeavor. The sex industry was grasped in the yakuza’s stranglehold then, and a shitty little gang from Sotenbori had very little to offer that the yakuza didn’t already. And yet, he and Oda had elbowed their way into power, if only a shred of it.

_Sir—you’ve had yourself a girl, a prostitute, a woman, a wife, a date._

_But have you ever had a_ pet _?_

And that’s all that rattled in Tachibana’s husk then: money and smoke. Then, there was nothing even resembling a conscience. He dreamed of little, and when he slept at night, he had not nightmares, but memories on repeat. But he didn’t pity himself—the mistreatment was only fact. Tachibana couldn’t afford to be bitter.

He’d be a hypocrite then. All those girls in cages with their empty, milk-white eyes. They surely dreamt and would continue to dream of mistreatment, too, yes?

So, there he was, smoking and taking up the bulk of a couch that no one seemed interested in, wondering if he was a bad person, concluding that he was, and then wondering if he cared. He found that he didn’t around the time that Kuroiwa walked in.

It was immediately obvious he was a cop.

Tachibana’s empty eyes traveled in the direction of the doorway and he stilled. He felt his heart pound, but he was sure he didn’t show it on the outside. His lips didn’t even twitch around the cigarette that he’d smoked down to the filter. He stared at Kuroiwa while the other patrons of the shitty little jazz bar, tucked in the middle of a half-developed, nowhere Little Asia, stiffened and winced.

All scum, just like him.

He commanded attention, even out of a traditional cop uniform. He was wearing a suit. The badge on his lapel shone as painfully unsettling as a silver tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth. He had the posture of someone with undebatable power, and the ego to match. That stern but round face surveyed the room and his soft, pink upper lip curled a little, barely containing disgust.

_He can’t prove anything_ , Tachibana thought, and looked back at the ceiling, at a trembling heater that put out a puff of hot air every once in a while, with a mechanical wheeze.

Kuroiwa beelined towards him and Tachibana could feel the blood cycling through his system, could feel his heart pound in the back of his throat, could almost taste the iron on his tongue. His heartbeat rattled in his head slow, and the nondescript jazz playing from a speaker began to muffle into an underwater throbbing of non-rhythm. Again, those icepick eyes slid to Kuroiwa, who stood by him, towering over where he laid like he had a fucking pair of angel wings on his back, a halo behind that neat hairstyle of his, looking smugger than a well-fucked lion.

“Can I help you, officer?” Tachibana said, his voice unreadably level.

“Tacky coat.”

“Pardon me?”

“Tacky coat. You look like a pimp.”

Tachibana didn’t respond. _He knows_ , he thought, as he brought his cigarette to his lips and sucked on the end, nursing it and letting the smoke fill his lungs as soothing as he could manage. Last smoke. _Do they let you smoke in prison?_

 _No—no—I’ll kick his ass. I can fucking take him. I’m not that sick yet. If I can take Oda, I can take_ —

Flicking away the butt of his Mild Seven, he sat up and ran his good hand over the back of his hair in order to smooth it down, then smiled coldly at Kuroiwa, mirthless.

“What a rude thing to say.”

“You’re no stranger to criticism, though. Jun told me.”

He swallowed, tasting bile and tar.

“Oh, Oda-san told you about me?” _Traitor. I’ll kick his ass one more time for good measure_.

Leaning forward, Kuroiwa—of all fucking things—propped his chin on Tachibana’s stiff shoulder. Like best buds, like _girlfriends_ , or something. Just hunched over and let that sharp chin sit on the soft fur of his coat, jaw needling at his collarbone.

His whisper brushed against his neck, “I admire a man like you.”

“What the _hell_ —”

Kuroiwa grinned an odd little smile, looking almost nervous, drunk on his own power. _Cops are fucking crazy, can get away with the weirdest shit_. Tachibana’s good hand curled into a fist inside his pocket, the prosthetic limp at his side.

Kuroiwa grabbed the fake hand, worked his glove off by the fingertips, and whispered again.

“I’m from Kamurocho. You see—I really have no jurisdiction in this region of Japan, so I’m practically _useless_. Isn’t that a _sad_ little thing? But there’s something sadder than powerlessness, Tachibana-san. You’re living day by day. Why even take the train home? Why even spend money on food? Why even get tacky coats like this? Why feel so empty, loveless? _Bing, bing, bing_ —the world spinning around you, and you’re stuck motionless… That ceiling is fascinating isn’t it? That stack of cash filling your pockets isn’t doing much up here, is it?” Kuroiwa tapped his temple, and Tachibana cringed. But it didn’t hurt as much as his words.

“Oda told you a lot about me, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” Kuroiwa draped an arm around Tachibana’s shoulders, tugging him close, “Can you feel my heart pounding? Almost as if I’m alive. Unfamiliar, isn’t it? He tells me you’ve been reduced to less than a human.”

Tachibana had a hard time keeping the tremble out of his voice. He stood mannequin stiff, surveying the bar which seemed to morph and shake into some dream world, all these people around, no one willing to help him. More oddly than that, though, was the urge to lift his hand and rest it on Kuroiwa’s spine. How long had it been since he’d been held?

“What do you want?”

“You. Call me _materialistic_ , but I saw you earlier today and I said— _oh, I’d like to be his friend_. Who knew you’d turn out to be so fucked up and empty inside? I have good taste, though, and my radar usually picks out interesting people.”

“And so, what, you interviewed Oda about me until you could harass me with this deeply personal information, insult me?”

“Don’t be too upset with him, please. It’s hard to resist spilling information as harmless as what he told me when you have a gun pointed at your head.”

Tachibana’s eyes widened fractionally, but he emitted a forced cough, then a laugh.

“You’re bluffing.”

“No. Would you like to be my friend?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Well, I must admit—you don’t have much choice.”

And as he hugged him tighter, Tachibana felt the firm outline of something very dangerous press into his hip.

With a shaking voice, Tachibana cracked: “Is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?”

Kuroiwa brought the now-removed glove to his lips and sucked the tip of it into his mouth, the leather sour on his tongue. The material was somehow warm from Tachibana’s prosthetic.

*

What had started as coercion quickly mutated into something akin to a friendship. Sure, Kuroiwa’s method of asking someone out was… unorthodox, but that was all it was, Tachibana concluded. He was an unorthodox guy.

(Not harmless, but he wasn’t harming _him_ , and at this point in time, Tachibana could care less about the well-being of others. Even so, he barely cared for his own well-being. Kuroiwa was right, after all—he felt like an empty bottle bobbing in the sea, no letter included.)

It was playful, almost. They played dress-up, Tachibana trying on Kuroiwa’s neat, neutral suits, conservative but sleek. They fit well—they were the same height, almost the same weight.

“I’d like to start dressing like this someday.”

Kuroiwa approved.

They liked similar things. When New Order came on in Tachibana’s car—one that he could barely drive, Kuroiwa white-knuckling at his own seatbelt as he took terrible turns over curbs, speeding through red lights—both of them reached for the volume knob to turn it up.

They shared a morbid sense of humor, but Kuroiwa seemed giddier about it than Tachibana, who seemed defeated as he weaved cynical jokes about the fruitlessness of life. They both enjoyed the same brands of whiskey and whenever Kuroiwa took him to that crab restaurant with the oversized model on top, Tachibana had buckled under his attraction to him and planted his foot between his legs. He rubbed him off under the table and wore a serene face as Kuroiwa caught flies with his open maw. Tachibana sucked the crab meat out of its shell with purpose, running his tongue over the bone, letting the steam billow warmly around his mole-speckled face.

They started fights on the bridge, and Tachibana was struck by Kuroiwa’s brutality. His pupils seemed to expand as he plunged his fist into the face of a surrendering punk over and over, far past what was necessary, until Kuroiwa could feel the bone crunch under his knuckles like a crab shell shattering. Tachibana felt sick watching that moonlight white fist splattered with maroon, Kuroiwa’s teeth shining in a rictus, but it didn’t stop him from palming at his own crotch that night as he thought of the way he laughed and shook his hand off, before sliding it into Tachibana’s and dragging him to another club.

It was violent, irresponsible. Bordering on horrifying most of the time. But the way that Kuroiwa would dance with him in the dark current of a nightclub, writhing bodies around them formless and warm—well, it somehow seemed to undermine the fact that he was a sadist, through and through. A strange creature, almost time-displaced, violating privacy, normalcy, too invasive and knowing. But he was fun. He liked Tachibana’s company, and Tachibana liked his. He began looking forward to his visits.

He would rattle off random facts about Tachibana that he somehow knew, thing Oda didn’t even know, and surely couldn’t tell Kuroiwa, but it didn’t mitigate that Tachibana was masturbating to him more and more.

Nights they spent together became days. He came to his apartment earlier and earlier every day, and Tachibana liked having a reason to get out of bed that didn’t cycle around work. Kuroiwa said he was in Sotenbori “on business,” whatever that meant. He didn’t ask too many questions, despite Kuroiwa knowing all about Tachibana’s. It was nice having something to do other than count money and organize a new fleet of two-bit gangsters to pick up the nearest vulnerable and unassuming woman.

It almost started becoming domestic. Kuroiwa showing up in the morning in his neat little cop suit, his hair gelled back. He would brush Tachibana’s, style it like his own, and then they’d have coffee and egg yolk over rice.

When Oda or another gang member of his would ask about him buddying up with a cop, his answer was always: “It’s nice having protection. Yakuza have cops on their side too, you know.”

Once, Oda had replied, “Yakuza also amputate body parts.”

Tachibana gave a shrug.

That didn’t matter either, because the night before, Kuroiwa had shown him a greyish, smooth lump of flesh about the size of a baby’s head.

He stood in the doorway in a raincoat obscuring his face and said, “While I can’t give you my own heart, I hope this will do.”

“That’s—” Tachibana laughed, feeling feverish, dizzy, his hand squeezing the doorknob so hard he thought he might dent the golden globe of it, “—quite the valentine, Kuroiwa.”

He sort of figured out what Kuroiwa’s “business” was, then.

*

So what if Kuroiwa was crazy?

He looked good in Tachibana’s bed on his hands and knees, that white, strong neck cuffed in a thick leather collar, hugging an Adam’s apple tightly. A red mark stood stark on his cheek from where Tachibana had slapped him earlier, and he was arched low like a dog about to pounce.

The light of his apartment was dim and sallow from a bare bulb. It was a small, cramped space, but neat as it could be. (Later in life, he would luxuriate in all the space and beauty and elegance that would come with his home in the “real estate” business.) Normally claustrophobic, the space just felt lovely and constrictive now in the same way that being snuggled up with a loved one might; the lack of elbow room was exciting. Being surrounded by nothing but Kuroiwa as he crawled over him was intoxicating. He smelled like iron and rain and alcohol tinged with honey and apples.

“Good boy,” Tachibana praised breathily, his eyes half-mast, half-drunk, but fully hard.

He hooked a finger in the silver O-ring of his collar and tugged a few times.

His prosthetic was off, and his only hand guided Kuroiwa around by his collar ring. If only he had a length of leather or chain or even a rope to tie around it, to tug him around on all fours, watching him walk like a dog. It was so exciting, seeing this powerful man in a place of absolute submission.

“Open.”

Kuroiwa’s eyes flashed with indignation, but Tachibana told him, “Good boys do as they’re told.”

And so Kuroiwa dropped his mouth open, let his tongue fall out—just slightly, not too eager to make himself a joke—and he gave a few half-hearted pants. He never had a dog, but Tachibana wanted an excitable puppy, so that’s what he’d get. Kuroiwa didn’t feel humiliated about it; Tachibana was always so serious.

Besides, Kuroiwa could _smell_ traitors. If Tachibana laughed at him, if he even had the _intention_ to laugh at him, Kuroiwa would piece those inky pupils of his as quickly as one would pin an insect on a taxidermy board.

Tachibana smiled that full-lipped, handsome smile and suddenly, giving a slow wag of his hips didn’t feel nearly as forced. Tachibana dragged his hand up and down his cock—pink and smooth and curved, almost cute—and ran his thumb along the vein on the underside of it. “Put it in your mouth. No teeth.”

Kuroiwa’s breath was humid and felt as enveloping as a sauna. It was getting even colder out, and his small rectangle of a bed was pressed up against the corner of his room, right beside a window that had a relentless draft.

But the body heat that Kuroiwa shared soothed him.

That wet tongue wrapped around his shaft as he went down on him. Kuroiwa’s teeth were sharper than a normal human’s, almost as if he’d filed them. So he did a careful job at keeping that predatory maw just far enough away from Tachibana’s delicate cock, which tasted salty and human. Kuroiwa went down on him, his throat making a disgustingly wet squelch as he took him to the base, licking all the way down, his nose buried in Tachibana’s dark, neat pubes. He smelled best here, aromatic with skin and sex. Kuroiwa had tried to convince him not to shower earlier that week, but Tachibana had made a face and refused.

They say that attraction to body odor had something to do with matching pheromones, but Kuroiwa was only _playing_ puppy; he wasn’t a dog ready to mate, as much as Tachibana seemed to like to think he was.

Still, he was sure his arousal when it came to Tachibana’s smell wasn’t purely coincidental.

“Good dog,” Tachibana said reverentially, his hand stroking the back of his neck, petting at his short hair, his hips working upwards slow enough to be rhythmic. But he punctuated them in random intervals, grinning when Kuroiwa choked, those tight muscles spasming around his shaft, drooling all over his dick.

He turned his eyes up at him and narrowed them indignantly, and Tachibana purred, “Don’t give me that look. A dog likes its bone.”

Kuroiwa snorted out a huff and went on sucking him off, lavishing over his dick like it was fucking candy or something. He did his best to deepthroat him, gagging only a few times, when he got too overzealous and tried to lick at his ballsack with the large intrusion already spearing through his throat, until Tachibana fixed his hand in his hair and tugged him upwards.

“That’s enough. Come here.”

Almost reluctantly, Kuroiwa let the flesh slide out of his mouth and panted for real this time, as he crawled up the bed, leaning down to bring his spit-wet lips over Tachibana’s fuller ones. They were almost pale, as if he was cold. (Turns out, he seemed to have a penchant for vanilla chapstick that tinted his lips whitish. As such, his kisses were always sugary.)

His thighs bracketed his hips and Kuroiwa crossed his arms over Tachibana’s chest so he could inspect him, looming over him. A droplet of cock-spit fell from his bottom lip and onto Tachibana’s mouth in a way that should be grotesque, but that Tachibana only found attractive. He licked it up with a swipe of his tongue. Their cocks brushed together, and while Tachibana’s was certainly slicker, Kuroiwa’s was hard enough to drip pre-cum, runny and thicker than usual. Tachibana reached between them and wrapped his hand around their cocks, stroking them together.

“Poor thing,” he sighed, “This pretty cock all neglected. You aren’t allowed to touch.”

“F—”

“No, puppies don’t speak. Ah, you’re being a good boy, though, aren’t you?” he stroked miserably slow, watching Kuroiwa’s eyes squeeze shut, watching his nostrils flare, his lip curl over his teeth. He thrusted forward in an attempt to rub himself off and hung his head with a god honest _whimper_ when Tachibana let go.

“Stop moving. Let me take care of you.”

“If I—”

Tachibana grabbed him by the face, squeezing him hard.

“Quiet.”

His handjob went on as slow as before, nearly torturing him with how leisurely his wrist moved, drawing it out with a placid, half-amused little look on his face. But under those moles was a light glow, a rosy little blush blooming like a sakura tree. It was hard to play it cool whenever you’ve got your dick frotting against a bigger one, heavy and reddish with arousal.

Squeezing at the base, pressing their slippery hard-ons together, Tachibana worked his hips up against him like they were teenagers dry humping for the first time, and came with a soft noise, an exhale not unlike blowing against a dandelion for a wish.

Kuroiwa couldn’t help it then, _forget_ the stupid no-talking rule. Seeing Tachibana lose himself, pearly cum slicking over his own cock, sticking to it messily—he didn’t give a shit.

“You little whore,” he growled, wrapping his arms around Tachibana’s neck and rutting against him almost brutally, grinning when Tachibana cried out as his oversensitive dick was grinded on, messy with cum and drying spit, “You’re so hungry for it, acting like you’re in control here.”

“I am,” Tachibana looped his arm around his neck in turn, and buried his face into Kuroiwa’s sweat-slicked shoulder, eyes sealed shut, “Too much— _ah_ —too—”

“Hurts a little bit, doesn’t it? You nasty bitch, I bet you like it.”

“ _Ahhn_ —”

“I’ll have to fuckin’—ruin this dick—make you cum over and over until you can’t even touch it, til your skin’s on _fire_ and you’re crying and begging me not to play with your pretty cock anymore, right? Wouldn’t that teach you a lesson? Keep you from being so smug?”

“I think that sounds—like a _lovely_ evening—” Tachibana whined and locked his legs tightly around Kuroiwa’s working hips, pressing their cocks together until it fucking hurt, _really_ hurt, Tachibana’s eyes shiny with tears that almost spilled. But not before Kuroiwa’s cock did.

He came, the fluid hot and wet, sticking onto Tachibana’s skin. Tachibana unraveled from him, his arm laying limply, flung to the side, his legs uncoiling from their death grip on Kuroiwa’s waist. His chest rose and fell in slow breaths, eyes gleaming with pleasure. Kuroiwa had the overwhelming urge to pry open those cute lids (which curved playfully when he smiled) and lick the surface of his eyeballs.

But, like the elegant man he was, he kept this urge at bay.

“Messy,” Tachibana muttered, and swiped his hand over his soft cock, collecting their shared semen, the color of nacre. He stuck three coated fingers into his own mouth, and Kuroiwa groaned.

*

Of course, privacy wasn’t enough for them.

“I’d like to show you Kamurocho. It’s far preferable to this dingy little shithole.”

It’d been over two months since Tachibana had been forced into forming a friendship with him. He supposed it was irresponsible of him; he’d been neglecting his gang to some degree, had been hyperfocused on the days that Kuroiwa would stop by. There were nights where the fear sat cold inside of him like an illness—the prospect was there: that Kuroiwa was setting him up, that this was some long-haul undercover cop shit. But he’d remember that grey lump of a heart he’d presented to him and all that feverish nervousness was usurped from his body. _He has nothing on me. He’s only heard stories; there’s no proof. He doesn’t even know where I operate. But I’ve seen him hold body parts. I know where the heart is buried_.

And other times, there was no fear at all. The anticipation was only eagerness. He couldn’t wait to see him again.

It was on a day like that in which he took the bullet train with his pal to Kamurocho for the first time. They’d been drinking shochu together and then they’d been talking of gruesome things in hushed voices, Kuroiwa expressing an interest in the art of eroguro. _Maybe one day you can gut me and then fuck my insides. Just kidding_. His favorite author was Mishima and Tachibana confessed he wasn’t a big reader. This earned an eyeroll and—for some reason—Tachibana was set on righting this purported wrong. He wanted nothing more than for Kuroiwa to be impressed with him.

“Maybe I’ll start. Maybe I’ll pick up a copy—”

“Mmhm.”

“No, I mean it. I’d like to read more. I used to, as a child—”

“Ah, that’s what they all say. ‘When I was a child, it was so much easier for me to read. I had so much time.’ Oh yes. It must be that… And not that most adults prefer children’s-level literature.”

Tachibana felt ashamed, blushing furiously.

Then, for all his cruelty, his judgment, his unending opinionated stream of consciousness, Kuriowa felt tenderly for having hurt him. Poor Tachibana, so eager to make him happy. Isn’t that what he’d wanted when he found him? For Tachibana to be attracted to him as much as he was attracted to Tachibana?

Instead of apologizing—even the thought of saying ‘sorry’ made him sick—Kuroiwa simply surveyed the train (which was empty on a Wednesday night, save for a few salarymen near the front reading papers or sleeping, and an older woman with a pale orange sweater three rows ahead of them who was also asleep), deemed it empty enough, and sat on Tachibana’s lap.

“Hey, if you needed me to move, you could have said so—”

Whenever Kuroiwa shifted his hips, Tachibana gripped the arm rest of the seat and hissed through his teeth. The smooth curved of his ass rode against his bulge languidly, and there was no mistaking what he was trying to do.

“ _Ahn_! Tachibana-san, you’re _already_ getting hard?” Kuroiwa cried. The reading salaryman’s head lifted momentarily before it quickly ducked back into the newspaper. _As is the way_ , Kuroiwa thought with a smirk, working his hips. He was wearing his usual suit, the slacks not too heavy—he didn’t like being weighed down in fights—and Tachibana’s cheaper pants weren’t nearly thick enough to combat the weight of Kuroiwa’s ass on his cock.

“ _Shh_!”

“Oh my god,” Kuroiwa cooed, and grabbed Tachibana’s prosthetic hand. He raised it to his chest, let it splay over his thin, white work shirt. “ _Fuck_ , Tachibana—”

“What are you _doing_?” he hissed, his wrist held in place by Kuroiwa’s firm grip.

“Play with my tits,” he encouraged at a level volume, continuing to work his hips. The grin on his face was all humor. He really did know how to torture a man, with both pleasure and pain, “Please. _Ah_ —they’ve been aching for you all day.”

Tachibana hid his face between Kuroiwa’s shoulder blades, embarrassed.

“Can’t you be quieter?”

“Why should I? This cock isn’t—”

“ _Shh_! Please, Kuroiwa, I’m—”

“Oh, fuck, there you go,” Kuroiwa hissed as Tachibana’s plasticky finger brushed over his nipple. The feeling of a warm leather glove, cotton, and Tachibana’s finger rubbing against that hardened, pink nub went straight to Kuroiwa’s cock. “That’s it. Just—massage them for me, would you?”

“Kuroiwa…”

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, unapologetic, “I’ll quiet down. But it’ll have to be a compromise.”

Yes—Kuroiwa liked seeing Tachibana blush, but only for the right reasons.

As he scooted back, his ass digging into Tachibana’s stomach, ushering out a grunt of discomfort, he worked at the belt and rolled his eyes, once again, when Tachibana’s hands flew to his wrists.

“Get your cock out and fuck me, or I’ll moan so loud they’ll think you’re doing me anyway,” Kuroiwa said as bluntly as if he was relaying the weather.

“Well—sure,” Tachibana conceded. It almost made Kuroiwa laugh.

It was awkward, the lack of prep, getting half-undressed in the constraints of a train car, the effort to be quiet now for no reason other than that Tachibana preferred it. But Kuroiwa managed to get Tachibana’s cock inside of him, despite his hole being relatively dry, despite the grind too rough, on the side of painful. He just grinned and went down on him, clenching around his shaft.

And then he sat there—not moving. Tachibana’s eyes sealed shut and he ducked his head against his shoulder, his arms looping around his waist. “Please. Please please please _please_ fuck yourself on my cock.”

It looked weird from a distance, two fully dressed men sitting on each other like any other couple, one of them practically crying into the other’s back.

But who was looking? Kuroiwa smirked, his cunt feeling so full and plugged up, searing hot.

“Haven’t you ever heard of cock-warming, Tachibana-san?”

“It’s too much. Please.”

“I know you expected a quickie. But I’m rather comfortable like this,” he whispered, pressing on his own abdomen and giving him a squeeze. Tachibana whimpered. “I could sit on you the entire way there. Won’t move at all, just let you fill me up like a fucking _toy_. Maybe I’ll change my mind if you make me cum.”

Tachibana’s hand instantly went to his cock and was batted away just as fast—the same way Tachibana did to him.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he said, and once again, brought Tachibana’s hands to his chest.

This time, there were no complaints on his end. He unbuttoned the shirt, right below his tie, and slipped his hand awkwardly into the garment. Kuroiwa was radiating an abnormal amount of heat, as if radioactive. And when Tachibana’s thumbs brushed over his hard nipples, he made a noise like he was being cauterized.

Again, he was hushed, and Kuroiwa slapped a hand over his own mouth in a girlish, playful gesture, giggling. As Tachibana rolled his nipples more—the prosthetic hand working slower but more pleasurable with that waxy leather over it—he began moving his hips. It was an altruistic thing, parasite and host. Tachibana plucked at the reddish nubs, pulling until they were swollen and sore, until Kuroiwa’s dick was erect, and in turn, he rode him in minute but regular motions.

“You’re being a slut,” Tachibana observed breathlessly, rubbing circles into his chest, feeling the developed but slim muscles there. They really were nice tits, he supposed, and the thought of using them as a cushion for his dick one day became more and more appealing as he worked his hips up in progressively brutal thrusts, nailing that sweet spot nestled inside his burning inner walls.

“I’m a slut, yes—very observant of you.”

Tachibana laughed, breathlessly, and pounded into him over and over, the _slap-slap_ and heavy breathing hardly mitigated by the sound of the train rolling over tracks.

The combination of titplay, of Tachibana’s hot breath fanning against the back of his neck, of his prostate being pounded by that dry intrusion that dragged at him in all the right ways, his hole being tugged on with every outpull—it was enough for him, and Kuroiwa came easily, without ever touching his cock once.

His cum splattered against the back of the train chair in front of him, crane feather white, and Kuroiwa felt a strange, dog-like pride at making his mark.

Maybe the puppyplay really was working.

“Alright, you can abuse my cunt now,” Kuroiwa laughed. Tachibana wasn’t one to deny an offer so appealing, and so he grabbed his hips and thrusted in until sweat prickled on his forehead, that rim tugging on his cock when he pulled out, as if it wanted to keep him nestled inside. Kuroiwa’s ass was pinkish, sweaty, full and grabbable, and Tachibana decided that he’d very much like to clean out whatever he’d soon leave inside his hole.

Which would turn out to be a considerable amount of cum. He bit Kuroiwa’s neck when he came, leaving a ring of red in that honeygold skin.

“Too bad you made me gape,” Kuroiwa said, slipping off of his lap and pulling his slacks up over his hips, “I’d like to _not_ leak all over these pants.”

Tachibana sat breathless in his chair, lazily tucking his cock back into his own pants, watching Kuroiwa fix his clothes with a pang of sadness at the sight of his ass and upper thighs disappearing inside his slacks.

“Maybe we’ll get you a plug.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kuroiwa laughed, grabbing Tachibana’s good hand and intertwining their fingers, “I like to keep things classy, after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

It had then become clear that Tachibana and Kuroiwa had, in no way, any reservation about public indecency. Whenever you’re insane and beautiful, that tends to happen, and while Tachibana didn’t prefer to think of himself as mad, Kuroiwa wasn’t in any denial about it. Madness wasn’t necessarily always evil, or inane—for Kuroiwa, it simply meant ignoring conventions oftentimes because he had no qualms about not adhering to the societal mold.

So, it was easy for him to slip on a cheongsam intended for slender women and go outside in it, holding Tachibana’s hand. Kuroiwa’s homosexuality was apparent ever since he was young, his attraction to an electrician that had come by their house whenever he was a child was the first strike and his refusal to see women as anything other that maternal beings or weaklings was the second. The third was the fact that he held genuine jealousy for women for being able to hold men in public, for being able to dress extravagantly and kiss beautiful boys—his misogyny was largely rooted in this envy.

And although still not genuinely acceptable in the late eighties, Kuroiwa seemed to be ignorant of, or he at least refused to acknowledge this fact, as he fit his shapely legs inside panty hose that made his skin look sheerly netted and rich, as he slipped on black heels that shone like rain puddles at night and fully intended to go out in public with another man romantically.

“You can walk in those things?” Tachibana had asked, leaning in the doorway of his shitty townhouse that had begun leaking from the ceiling with the rainy season. Kuroiwa walked forward from the staircase and gave him a strange, half-lidded stare as unreadable as it was attractive. He looked like a traditional Chinese wife, and Tachibana was tempted to attach odango covers to his head.

“There’s nothing I can’t do.”

Tachibana took his arm in his and walked outside beneath a shared umbrella as black as his heels.

“I don’t doubt that.”

He supposed they’d get some looks, surely, maybe some name calling, but Kuroiwa’s beauty seemed to deflect any conventions that might have arisen in passersby as they walked through Sotenbori’s lightly drizzling afternoon. Kuroiwa had wanted to go to a teahouse in a cheongsam, and that’s what he’d get. Compelled to ask him where he got the idea, Kuroiwa had blushed furiously and said it was none of his business.

Which probably meant he’d been watching some tacky soap opera like Tachibana had recently discovered him liking—particularly historical fiction. Kuroiwa curled up on his couch, looking small and innocent and not at all like a murderer-for-hire, watching men in samurai wear or Korean immigrants in their hanboks talk over swelling violin soundtracks.

As they passed a hydrangea garden of indigo and white, Tachibana looked at his partner with half-lidded eyes and sighed between his lips. Kuroiwa looked so cute—his full cheeks seemed warm with blush and he had applied very subtle red eye makeup to the corners of his lids which were playfully maternal. For all appearances, he seemed like such a lovely, feminine person, with no cruel intentions of violent tendencies, no coercion or madness innate in him at all. Backdropped by gem-toned petals and a blossoming sakura tree—as it was the beginning of April—he could be mistaken fully as someone essentially good. At least in image.

That’s the way beauty warps things. It’s reprehensible.

Tachibana knew better—intimately so, as he’d seen that face splattered with blood and those currently calm eyes wide and dark with blown-out pupil. And yet he felt very secure as he walked him to the tearoom that was perched on the western corner past Iwao Bridge, nestled below ground in a shopping center.

Kuroiwa sat down on a wooden chair carved with flowers, and the slit of his cheongsam stretched to reveal the white of his thigh. It was a sleeveless thing with a raised and ornate neckline that nestled his long, swan-like throat. He didn’t have a hair out of place despite the humidity, and Tachibana had to run his fake hand over his own hair to keep it slicked back, though the gel had already been sweated out from the condensation in the air. It flopped cutely around his face. For all intents and purposes, they looked nice, normal, functional. Any homophobia that may have been rooted in the area didn’t seem to manifest when they sat together, and the woman who placed down cups of rooibos tea gave them an approving smile.

Kuroiwa broke a biscuit with his fingers and dropped it in his tea, letting the reddish liquid soak it until it disintegrated. He mixed it like sugar.

“I’ve been thinking, Tachibana,” he said, and lifted a spoonful of tea and crumbs to his lips which were painted red, “I might go back to Kamurocho, soon.”

Tachibana stared at him with that lifeless look he always wore.

“For what purpose?”

“I’m simply bored here. And, if you remember, I _do_ have a job there.”

Tachibana frowned and drank his own tea from the cup, not these infuriatingly slow sips from the spoon like Kuroiwa did.

“I see.”

“And you understand that it wouldn’t be smart for a police officer to spend all his time with a sex trafficker, yes?”

Tachibana narrowed his eyes, his skin bristling with uncharacteristic anger at the way he casually spoke the words among this tiny café. Though the only ears around were the owner’s and the tiny porcelain cats decorating a shelf above them, he still didn’t like his crimes being announced so flippantly—not when he could dump accusations right back on Kuroiwa’s lap.

“Right.”

“But you’ve treated me well in this time I’ve spent here, Tachibana. But, as you know, duty calls, and crime doesn’t stop. You do know that, don’t you?”

“…And so do you.”

“Well,” Kuroiwa looked smug around his spoon. “My friend Hamura-san beckons me, and there’s money in that beckoning.”

Was he being broken up with? Tachibana tilted his head and gave a shrug.

“I see.”

“…Hm. Not the type to be overly emotional, I see. Well, that’s fine. I would like to say goodbye properly, though, darling.”

Tachibana couldn’t understand why he was feeling so heavy—shouldn’t he feel relief? Kuroiwa muscled his way into his life, coerced their friendship by force, and played with his and Oda’s future like a cat with a ball of yarn. And yet—

“Yes, I think that’d be nice,” he smirked without mirth, “I’ll miss you, after all.”

*

The cloth was gold and patterned with chrysanthemums because, of course, Kuroiwa was a bit of a Japanese nationalist—if his preferred author and his general life disposition weren’t obvious enough. And it slipped up the curve of his ass, the cloth collecting around his waist as he arched and showed off his hole, his hands grasping both of his cheeks and pulling them apart so Tachibana could see. His chest was pressed up against the wall and his knees were buckled towards each other.

His pantyhose had been rolled down and spread over his thighs, which was a shame, because Tachibana would have liked to have ripped it and spread those cheeks apart, to spit on his cunt and shove his cock inside on his own terms. But Kuroiwa commanded control even in the most vulnerable of positions. He had a way of doing that—of using Tachibana (and all men) like a dildo.

The perfume wafted against his nose as Tachibana pressed up against him, his cock rubbing between his cheeks, his nose nestled in his neck.

“Think anyone’ll come through?”

“Who cares?” Tachibana had huffed, defeated, and kissed the delicate skin sitting over his pulse. It smelled like sour magnolias and the remainder of the rooibos, “Let ‘em see what a whore you are for me.”

The rain had stopped for a moment, but the sky was still overcast, and beyond that, heavily covered by the rows of balconies and the maze of staircases and fire escapes overhead. In this “private” alley, a classless place that smelled of iron and rainwater, they’d fuck for the last time—how fitting. There were two overfilled dumpsters nearby. Trash surrounded by trash. Really spoke to their actual nature.

Tachibana spit on his palm, watched the saliva spread around under his thumb, and had the vague feeling that he was not in control of his own body. He jerked himself off, watching Kuroiwa’s hole flutter needily behind his cockhead. He smirked. Poor Kuroiwa really thought he held the power the entire time, but that cunt was as well used and puffed out as a result, looking almost like a pair of pretty pussy lips. He pressed his shiny, reddish head against that hungry orifice and watched Kuroiwa’s beautifully dressed hips work back against him. God, he was gorgeous in his cheongsam, looking over his own shoulder and down the slope of his arched back, his hands gripping his own round ass, pressing into the skin so that it pushed between his fingers.

Was he really so lucky to have deserved this? Was he really so lucky to have this monster let him go after all this? Somehow, he doubted one final fuck would break this spell Kuroiwa had over him.

His body moved for him. Tachibana was so used to this routine now. (Just last night he’d milked Kuroiwa and himself dry, Kuroiwa on all fours with his pussy dripping with three loads total—his own cum a puddle beneath him, wrenched out with a skilled hand, leaving him used and shaking and drooling on the floor with his toes curled.)

His cock entered Kuroiwa and instantly he was enveloped in that heat that made Tachibana lose all sense, that made him feel warm, made his ears go tingly and his brain all static—as if he was under the influence of MDMA or pheromones or some other chemical strength.

Truth was, he was just a horny bastard and Kuroiwa’s cunt was just as tight as his dick needed.

“ _Mmh_!” Kuroiwa whined as he was speared through, his mouth falling open and his eyes creasing with pleasure, “That’s a good boy, isn’t it? Take care of your wifey…”

“Fuck… Voice down,” he instructed and eased one of Kuroiwa’s hands off of his own cheek to give it a rough slap.

“ _Oh_ —” he sighed and then laughed, his tongue falling out of his mouth, shaking his hips like a porn star, “Gonna try and instruct me, Tachibana-san? I don’t think so.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

This was punctuated by a brutal thrust of his hips that made Kuroiwa grit his teeth as his body slid roughly up the rain-wet fencing partitioning this apartment complex from the brownstone beside it. His qipao was pulled higher up his body with the movement. Kuroiwa began drooling. Surely, the expression was a show, to make Tachibana feel as though he was pleasing Kuroiwa more than he actually was, but that rolled-eye-tongue-out look always got him good.

“Gorgeous fucking cunt, just taking this dick,” he observed, his breath muddled with gasps as he worked his hips, battering at Kuroiwa’s prostate which placement Tachibana had memorized the way someone memorizes their morning routine. “You’re gonna miss it, aren’t you? Gonna miss being a total whore for me, dressing up like a girl and being a wet slut in the rain.”

“Mmh,” he purred, “Maybe I will miss you, Tachibana-san, but I won’t change my ways for anyone.”

“What a cumdump,” he pushed Kuroiwa’s head up against the fence with his prosthetic arm, closing in on him, almost claustrophobically as he boxed him in against the fence. He pressed his weight against him and jackrabbited his hips as he wound his arms around his waist.

“Feel that?” he said, “Feel your guts being fucked up? Disgusting boy. Acting so high and mighty, so classy and pretty. You’re just an animal, crawling through cum and blood. Nothing of value in this fucked up little head. Total whore, through and through… Aren’t you— _ah_ —aren’t you ashamed?”

“ _Hnn_ … Yes!”

“Aren’t you just a worthless slut?”

Kuroiwa made a fucked-out noise and his hand went to his own straining erection.

“ _Auh_ … Y-yes!”

“You want to get stuffed with cum, don’t you? Say it.”

“I _do_ —”

“Say it right.”

“Tachibana…”

“That’s right. Say you want to get stuffed with cum.”

“I— _ieee_ … I wanna be stuffed with your cum…”

“Say you want to get pregnant with it.”

“I—I wanna get pregnant…—I wanna carry your baby—Tachi! Please!”

Tachibana made a noise like a strangled animal and doubled over that elegant, white body that was coiled like a snake, and came inside of him, filling him up, marking him. He’d deposited so many loads in his hole before, but this time he felt insistent on keeping him plugged up, and made sure to relish every single throb of his cock as it spurted out cum inside of him, as his dick twitched in Kuroiwa’s body.

He wished he could stay like that for good, heatedly riding out an orgasm with his cock tucked inside of Kuroiwa, his arms wrapped around that feverish body as the rain came down and he smelled his perfume and the distant hydrangeas and his cum and rooibos and a faint tinge of blood because Kuroiwa was all too ready to empty flesh and admit his own lack of humanity.

Kuroiwa left a stain of white on the fence. He turned around, Tachibana whimpering as his cock slipped out of his warm cunt, and raised his well-shaped arms over his head, showing off the smooth flat of his sweating armpits.

Tachibana tucked his face into his left one and sighed, inhaling his odor as he rubbed his sensitive cock on the front of Kuroiwa’s cheongsam. He held his hips in his hands as he nuzzled there. It was flat and recently shaved.

“Off to Kamurocho, then, yes?” Tachibana muttered into the damp skin.

“Yes, I think so. …I do hope you’ll come visit me, darling.”

Tachibana sniffed him. “Yeah. Thinking of moving there.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is supposed to be a crackship but i'm nasty and in love w them now so thanks a lot to the genius who commissioned this from me bc now i have a genuine attachment to two characters that'll NEVER meet AAAAAAAAA
> 
> i hope you enjoyed bebe!
> 
> [here's my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


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